"Elmis."
At Marin's call, Elmis approached silently, poured the tea with practiced grace, and retreated to her position against the wall.
"That maid who wielded a sword so skillfully last time..."
The Crown Prince's golden eyes flickered with curiosity.
"Duke, are all the maids in your household this proficient with a blade?"
"Not at all."
The Duke's reply was dry as autumn leaves, his expression unchanging.
The prince smiled wryly.
"So that particular maid is special, then."
"Perhaps."
The Duke answered with supreme indifference, slowly leaning back against the sofa cushions as though the conversation bored him to his very bones.
Marin shot him a sidelong glare.
"Lady Shuvenets."
The prince turned his attention to her, his demeanor brightening considerably.
"Have you had the opportunity to explore the capital?"
"Yes, though only briefly.
Just the central district."
"There are so many wonderful places to discover!"
Genuine enthusiasm lit his features.
"Perhaps I might accompany you, my lady?
There's an excellent restaurant—"
"That's impossible."
The Duke's voice cut through like a blade of ice.
"Ah."
The prince's smile didn't waver.
"Then there's a beautifully scenic park.
We could stroll together—"
"Out of the question."
Marin threw an openly irritated glance at the Duke.
The Crown Prince, undeterred and still smiling pleasantly, pressed on: "Then perhaps a pastry shop—"
"Not—"
"*Let's go!*" Marin cut the Duke off mid-refusal, her voice ringing with enthusiasm.
"I would love that!"
The Duke's eyebrow arched sharply.
He turned his head toward her, his expression clearly demanding: *What was that?*
But Marin had no attention to spare for him.
Her thoughts were spinning wildly.
In the garden, after Daya had declared her desire to become Crown Princess, the conversation had turned to pastry shops.
When the prince's letter arrived, Marin had assumed he hadn't overheard them.
While she drowned in doubt, the Duke's low voice cut through her thoughts.
"It is forbidden."
Only then did Marin turn to face him fully.
His chin was raised in a manner that practically screamed *try it if you dare*—infuriatingly smug.
"It's impossible," he repeated, as though she hadn't heard him the first time.
"Duke, perhaps you could calm down?"
The Crown Prince interjected with an awkward smile, attempting diplomacy.
"Why must you go with His Highness?"
The Duke's voice dropped, growing ominously heavy.
Marin hid her confusion behind a steady gaze, looking into his sightless eyes.
Daya wanted to become Crown Princess.
Marin already loved her like a true niece and wanted to support whatever path she chose.
And if their love developed as it had in the original story, then—according to the plot—the Duke would regain his sight.
What frightened her most was the thought of him remaining blind forever.
For her, the Duke was no longer merely a character in a book.
He was a living, breathing person.
And she couldn't bear for his pain to continue.
Burying these inexpressible reasons deep within her heart, Marin scrambled for a suitable argument.
"I told you—this is a chance to see His Highness more often—"
"Do you truly prefer younger men?"
"What?"
Marin blinked, the question catching her completely off guard.
"I asked," the Duke repeated, his voice quiet but deadly serious, "do you prefer younger men?"
"Well..."
Marin answered honestly, still utterly confused by his line of inquiry.
"I wouldn't say I'm *against* it.
If I had to choose between 'yes' and 'no,' I suppose I'd say...
'not against it'?"
A wave of heat seemed to radiate from the Duke—scorching, almost suffocating.
"Your Highness."
His tone was exaggeratedly polite, though his unseeing gaze remained fixed on Marin.
"I find myself fatigued.
I can no longer bear to look upon you."
The Crown Prince, sensing the shift in atmosphere, rose quickly from his seat.
"Well then!
Duke, please rest.
My lady—" He offered Marin a warm smile.
"I shall write to you."
"Let me see you out—"
"No need."
He waved a graceful hand, bowed elegantly, and departed.
Elmis peeled away from the wall to escort him.
The parlor fell silent.
Only two people remained: the Duke and Marin.
Her gaze slid toward the door as she frantically considered how to extract herself from this increasingly awkward situation.
"So."
The Duke's voice was dangerously soft.
"You prefer younger men."
"No—I said I don't *mind*.
That doesn't mean I *prefer* them."
Marin muttered, somehow flustered, stealing a sidelong glance at him.
"I believe that amounts to the same thing."
His jaw tightened.
"I shall have to remove all these young whelps from your sight."
"*What?*"
"Yubisa as well."
"What are you talking about?!"
Marin's voice pitched higher with disbelief.
"He's not even an adult yet!"
"He can be grown," the Duke said meaningfully, as though this were a perfectly reasonable solution.
"What kind of *upbringing* is that?!"
"Why must you always do this?" she demanded.
"So it's the Crown Prince after all," he murmured, almost to himself.
"*What?*"
"I should remove the heir—"
"*Stop!*"
Terrified, Marin lunged forward and clamped her hand over his mouth before he could finish the sentence.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Have you completely lost your mind?!
Are you going mad again?!
Where could you possibly go when you can't even see?!"
Mercifully, the Duke made no move to remove her hand.
Marin stared at him, willing herself to calm down.
"It seems there's been a *terrible* misunderstanding."
She kept her voice as steady as she could manage.
"Do you honestly believe I have feelings for the Crown Prince?
If so, nod."
The Duke's brow furrowed deeply.
Then—almost imperceptibly—he nodded.
Marin gaped at him, utterly stunned.
"This is a *misunderstanding*!
What kind of candidate for Crown Princess do you think I am?!"
At the word *misunderstanding*, his eyebrows smoothed slightly—then immediately drew together again.
"In any case," she pressed on firmly, "I do not regard His Highness in that manner at all.
So *stop this*.
Understood?
If you understand, nod.
Then I'll let go."
The Duke remained motionless.
Her hand stayed pressed to his lips.
Their warmth—soft, faintly moist—burned against her palm like a brand.
"I'm telling you, this is a *misunderstanding*."
Frustration crept into her voice.
"'Not minding younger men' doesn't mean I *prefer* them.
Actually—" She huffed.
"I prefer *older* men!"
One eyebrow lifted sharply.
Then, suddenly, he nodded with fervent enthusiasm.
"So the misunderstanding is cleared?"
Another vigorous nod.
Only then, relief flooding through her, did Marin withdraw her hand and press it against her chest.
Her palm burned.
So did her face.
"How much older?"
"What?"
"You said older is better."
His voice was carefully neutral—too carefully.
"How much older?"
"Hmm..."
Marin considered the question, caught off guard.
"Two or three years, I suppose?
That's probably just right."
The Duke's expression darkened immediately.
"What about adding another year?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"Four years is about right."
Marin stared at him, bewildered.
"Well...
I suppose one more year is fine..."
At her words, a satisfied smile bloomed across the Duke's lips.
The oppressive tension that had filled the room dissipated like morning mist.
Marin exhaled loudly, her shoulders sagging.